The venerable sages Vasiṣṭha, Vāmadeva, and Jābāli, steadfast in their vows and accompanied by the honored ministers, led the way forward. Together, they moved eastward, journeying toward the beautiful Mandākinī river as they circled the majestic mountain of Chitrakūṭa. Along the path, Bharata and his vast army followed, marveling at the thousands of delightful minerals and wondrous sights that adorned the landscape. Not far from Chitrakūṭa, Bharata caught sight of the hermitage where the sage Bharadvāja had established his peaceful abode. Upon arriving at this sacred place, wise Bharata descended from his chariot and, full of reverence, bowed at the feet of the sage. Bharadvāja, delighted by Bharata’s presence, warmly inquired, “O dear one, has your task been accomplished, and have you met with Rāma?” Bharata, ever devoted to his brother, replied with humility. He recounted how, despite being urged by his teacher and himself, Rāghava—steadfast and greatly pleased—had spoken to Vasiṣṭha: “I will uphold my father’s promise exactly as it was made; for fourteen years, as my father vowed.” Hearing this, the wise Vasiṣṭha responded with skillful words, urging Rāghava to joyfully give his adorned golden sandals, so that they would safeguard Ayodhya’s welfare under his care. Thus addressed, Rāghava stood facing east, mounted the golden sandals, and entrusted them to Bharata, signifying his rule in Rāma’s absence. Bharata explained to Bharadvāja, “I am now withdrawn and permitted by the great-souled Rāma; I return to Ayodhya, bearing these auspicious sandals.” Hearing Bharata’s noble words, the sage Bharadvāja spoke even more auspiciously: “This is not surprising, O tiger among men, best among those of noble conduct; as water flows naturally into a hollow, so does virtue reside in you. Your father Daśaratha, mighty-armed, is like nectar, for you are such a son—knower of dharma and devoted to righteousness.” Having spoken thus, Bharata, with palms joined in reverence, took leave of the great-souled sage, once again touching his feet. He circled Bharadvāja respectfully, and then, accompanied by his ministers, departed for Ayodhya. With chariots, wagons, horses, elephants, and his vast army, Bharata led the return journey. On their way, they beheld the divine Yamunā river, adorned with waves, and again glimpsed the auspicious Ganges, whose pure waters inspired reverence. Crossing these lovely, water-filled rivers with their companions, they entered the charming city of Śṛṅgibera with their troops. From Śṛṅgibera, they gazed upon Ayodhya once more. Yet, upon seeing Ayodhya bereft of father and brother, Bharata was overcome with sorrow. He spoke to his charioteer, “Charioteer, look! Ayodhya is ruined, it does not shine; formless, joyless, distressed, its sounds suppressed.” Thus concludes the one hundred thirteenth chapter of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the venerable Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the ancient epic. With a chariot whose sound was deep and resonant, the illustrious Bharata swiftly entered Ayodhya. He found the city inhabited by owls and vultures, filled with elephants and men, but struck by darkness—gloomy and dim like the night. He saw his beloved wife, radiant in splendor, yet afflicted like Rohiṇī oppressed by the rising planet Rāhu. Ayodhya appeared as a mountain stream, thin and disturbed, its birds driven away by drought, its fish, crocodiles, and alligators hidden, its flow diminished. It was like a sacrificial flame, golden-bright but without smoke, rising after the oblation only to be extinguished. The city resembled an army after a great battle, its armor shattered, horses and chariots destroyed, banners fallen, heroes slain—plunged into misfortune. Ayodhya was like a wave of the ocean, once foaming and resounding, now silenced by the calming wind. It stood as an altar, abandoned by priests and their splendid implements, left quiet after the completion of the Soma sacrifice. Like a cow distressed in the midst of the herd, wandering for fresh grass, abandoned by the bull and longing for its leader, so too was Ayodhya. It was as a new string of pearls, separated from its finest gems, shining yet incomplete. Like a star fallen from the sky, its brilliance and expanse withdrawn, cast down by the loss of its merit. The city was like a forest creeper, once adorned with flowers and buzzing bees, now withered and scorched by a swift fire. Ayodhya was as the sky veiled by clouds, its moon and stars concealed; as a city with markets and shops closed, its sacred texts confused and silent. It was like a drinking ground, unswept and covered with broken cups, its revelers gone. Like a ruined well, its ground cracked and sunken, surrounded by broken vessels, its water gone, collapsed and fallen. Thus, Bharata entered his beloved city, now a shadow of its former glory, his heart heavy with grief for all that had been lost.